


a language known by two

by ncfan



Series: Fictober 2018 [1]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Fictober, Fictober 2018, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: Ketsu finds one of Sabine's tags. [Written for Fictober 2018]





	a language known by two

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fictober 2018, prompt “Can you feel this?”

It’s Sabine’s work. Ketsu recognizes it immediately; Sabine’s tags have a very distinctive style, one Ketsu would know anywhere. Minimalist; bold colors; either swirling, rounded lines or angles sharp enough to cut, with nothing in-between those two extremes.

Three years since she last saw Sabine, and Sabine’s art is still engraved on her mind like her tattoos are engraved on her skin. Ketsu doesn’t know what’s wrong with her, sometimes (Though it’s not like she ever examines that part of her mind too closely). She sighs and goes to walk away from this lonely wall, but something stops her.

The paint isn’t fresh; it’s faded from exposure to sunlight and starting to peel. Maybe Sabine’s still here. Maybe she isn’t. Something in Ketsu rebels at the idea of going looking for her—she has a new life now, and in that new life there is no room for someone who doesn’t understand the laws of survival in the lawless galaxy—despite the curiosity that immediately wells up inside of her. Sabine’s tags aren’t really any different, but what about the rest? What about her other wall art, her canvas paintings? The style of her armor, the color of her hair, the shape of her face?

No, it’s stupid. It’s three years, and regardless of whatever thought might pop into Ketsu’s head from time to time, she does _not_ miss Sabine. Sabine’s… another life. That’s what she is.

That art, though, it’s another life, another _language_ , and that’s the problem, that’s what keeps Ketsu here, standing in front of the wall, looking at it.

Tags are meant for identification. Any kid growing up on the streets of Sundari can think of at least a few dozen and the names attached to them. This is more than that. This is a language only two people ever spoke, and Ketsu remembers it all too well.

She rakes her fingertips across the wall. The sensation is unsatisfying; the paint might be there, but all Ketsu can feel is the stone. A shadow of the past with no voice, ability to reach out and touch—nothing to do but present itself to her eyes, a pictograph divorced from its context, silent noise that can never resolve itself into anything meaningful.

She rakes her fingernails against the tag, and wonders if its maker will ever feel it, like a shadow passing over her soul.


End file.
